


Do I know you?

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Businessman Michael, Co-workers, Embarrassment, Gen, Human Michael, Stripper Michael, Stripping, office worker chuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck falls down at work, which is embarrassing. A hot guy sees the whole thing, which is more embarrassing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I know you?

Bad luck, that was all.

Just sheer bad luck that Chuck had tripped on his untied shoelace and sent his bag flying and hit his elbow hard enough to make it feel like a snapped rubber band. Bad luck that for a moment he was too shocked to move... and bad luck that almost the entire contents of his bag had spilled onto the linoleum for the whole world to see.

And also sheer bad luck that among the contents of his bag was, apparently, something not entirely safe for work.

"Is that... a vibrator?"

Chuck snatched the small pink toy before anything else and shoved it into his pocket. "I don’t—I have no idea who that belongs to. I don't know how it got there. A ghost, probably." He cleared his throat, and finally got onto his knees instead of laying on his side like a dope, and grabbed his lighter and a little box of tic-tacs. Put them into his bag before muttering, "Sex toy poltergeist."

The other man's failed attempt not to laugh—resulting in a strangled snort—made Chuck look up. His mouth twisted. "What?"

"No, I—nothing. Just... a sex toy poltergeist? Really?"

Chuck couldn't help but grin. "Okay, maybe that was a stretch." He sighed, and began to push his crinkled papers into stacks. "But... I mean, really, I don't know why that was... in there. In my work bag." He rubbed his face. Frowned. Peered around. "Where are my glasses?"

"Oh, here." The man smiled—at least, Chuck thought it was a smile but it was a very tiny smile—and held out Chuck's glasses. "They might be a little scuffed because they hit my shoe, but I figured that was better than flying down the stairs."

"Oh, God. Thank you." Chuck shoved them onto his face. "I don't know what I would have done if they'd broken. Uh, what's your name?" He looked up, as the other man stood.

"Me? Oh, I'm—" He glanced at his watch and grimaced as he spoke. "Crap, I have to go."

Off he darted, and Chuck made a face. "Wait, what—" But the sound of footsteps faded quickly, and the other man was out of sight before Chuck could say, "Are you really _that_ busy?" He sighed. Looked at the papers on the floor with a frown and finished stacking them so he could slip them back into their folder. They were definitely out of order, but he could fix them later. For that moment, he focused on getting everything back into his messenger bag. Pack of tissues, thermos full of coffee, lunchbox, all the important stuff. He buckled it up much tighter than that morning—that morning, in fact, he hadn't had time to buckle it at all. Too busy running out of the house without bothering to even tie his sneakers. (Sneakers which he shouldn't have been wearing to work in the first place, but... his alarm had decided not to go off.)

For a minute, he sat on the floor with his bag in his lap. But then he thought, "oh, maybe I should tie my shoes" and went about that. Black hi-tops at work, though? Awful. Chuck couldn't believe he'd been so distracted that he hadn't even put on the right shoes. And his coffee? The thermos in his bag was from the day before. Totally empty. Lunchbox, too. Though that probably had some sandwich crusts in it. Chuck grumbled to himself, and finally stood up and hooked his bag over his shoulder. He made his way to the elevator, only hobbling a little bit, rubbing his elbow. It still felt tingly and would probably bruise.

He felt like such a _fool_. Tripping and falling like a goddamn Jenga tower in front of an extremely attractive younger man, and having said younger man immediately notice the _vibrator_ that shouldn't have been in the bag in the first place? Beyond embarrassing. Horrifying.

Speaking of vibrators... Chuck grabbed it from his pocket and gave it a glare before shoving it into the recesses of his bag. He didn't know why he had it with him. The only thing he could think of was that either, a) he'd mistaken it for something else or, b) the cat had put it in his bag for him. Sure, she'd probably thought she was being helpful but Chuck did not appreciate her "help." If it even was her fault.

When the elevator dinged, Chuck shook his head. He stepped out and turned his thoughts to work. No time for blaming the cat—he needed to get to his desk and sort all of his papers and probably answer a thousand emails.

He sighed.

.........................................

"So," Becky grimaced as she forced her salad open, but then gave Chuck a bright smile. "Are hole-filled Converse business casual, now? 'Cause I have some that would go great with my new pantyhose." She dumped an ungodly amount of dressing onto her salad.

Chuck made a face. He poked at the soggy egg sandwich he'd bought and muttered, "I woke up late."

Becky raised her eyebrows. "Oh, really?" She shoved a forkful of lettuce and spinach into her mouth before saying, "Alarm clock break again or were you too hungover to hear—ow!" She glared at Chuck. "Don't kick me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Chuck smiled innocently, peeling the crust off of his sandwich. "It wasn't plugged in when I checked it after my _very_ cold shower." He nibbled at his sandwich with equal parts disinterest, hunger, and disgust.

"Oh, lame."

"You're damn right." Chuck rubbed his face. "And I'm tired, and I fell down this morning so my body hurts. And a hot guy saw the whole thing! But he was nice, at least, and didn't make fun of me or anything." He glowered at his sandwich. "Thank God Luke wasn't there. He would have laughed his ass off."

Becky snorted. "He would've laughed and then he would've pretended to help you up but then pull away and say something mean."

"'What're you doing down there on the floor, Mr. Shurley?' and 'Sure you don't need any help?'" Chuck made his hand move like a mouth, as he spoke with his mouth full. "Asshole."

"He has a crush on you."

Chuck almost choked on his sandwich. He coughed and shot Becky a glare. "Don't _say_ shit like that!"

Becky put her hands up in surrender. "He does! I heard him talking to someone on the phone!" She frowned and poked at a tomato in her salad and muttered, "He said, uh... 'He's cute when he stutters and when he bends over.'"

"Oh my God." Chuck put his head in his hands, abandoning his sandwich. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "I'm going to pretend you never told me this and keep thinking of Luke as my demon of a boss." He sighed. Stared at the remaining half of his sandwich for a second before pushing it toward Becky and asking for a tomato.

She gave him two and chirped, "Maybe he was talking about a different person."

"I hope so."

Becky smiled and patted Chuck's hand. Her smile turned sly, after a moment. And possibly somewhat predatory. Chuck feared she might say something terrifying but all she said was, "Hey, do you wanna go to a club tonight?"

But he still couldn't shake his suspicion. "...what kind of club?"

"The strip club! _Duh_." Becky stuck her tongue out.

"Oh, thank Jesus." Chuck put his glasses back on and stuck one of the grape tomatoes in his mouth. "I thought you meant the dance club and I was about to just stand up and walk away."

Becky laughed. Stuck the lid back on her salad and stretched toward the garbage can to throw it away. She straightened her jacket and said, "You know I'd never ask you to go out dancing. Not with all those hot, shirtless young people and the strobe lights and the body shots." She smirked. "You can't _dance_."

"I know." Chuck leaned his elbows against the table and immediately regretted it. He rubbed at his arm with a grimace. It still felt tender. He rolled his sleeve up while Becky just gave him a strange look, and twisted his arm so he could see his elbow. "Ugh." Red and mottled, his skin looked angry. He rubbed at his elbow.

Becky reached out and touched his arm, careful not to press on the bruise. "Do you need me to get you some ice, or something? That looks like it hurts real bad."

Chuck shook his head. "Nah, it's okay." He sighed. "It doesn't hurt too much unless I bump it, and stuff."

"Oh, okay." Becky leaned back, crossing her legs under the table. "Anyway, strip club. Tonight? Pick you up at nine? I'll pay for the cover...?"

Chuck slapped his hand down on the table. "Okay! You got me." He grinned. "I'll buy the booze, you pay the cover, table by the stage."

"Awesome!" Becky put her hand over Chuck's, no less gently. They both winced.

"On second thought, come early." Chuck shook his hand, and rubbed at his knuckles with a frown. "You know I'm terrible at dressing myself as anything other than a hobo or a sleep-deprived professor." He huffed. "Or a zombie."

Becky gave him a reassuring nod, and a wide smile. "Don't worry, Chuck. I'll use my obviously superior fashion tastes and help you dress as something other than the dirty hipster you are."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "My hero."

"Of _course_."

.............................................

"It's either this, or a dress shirt."

Chuck held up the pastel purple shirt Becky offered him. The color didn't bother him so much as the deep v-neck and the fact that the shirt was clearly cut for someone with a waist narrower than their chest. His mouth twisted. "I dunno, Becky..." He held it to himself and shook his head. "I don't even have anything to go under this and I'd definitely stretch it out." He gave it back to her.

Becky shrugged. "Dress shirt, then. What do you even have—is it still just the brown one and nothing else?"

"I have... white." Chuck pushed aside some stuff in his closet. "Barf green..."

"What about this one?" Becky pulled a checked shirt out of the closet—white and pale orange with long sleeves. She held out one of the sleeves. "This is cute. Put it over like, a brown tank top or something." She shoved it into his arms. "And get those black jeans you never wear. The ones that make your butt disappear."

Chuck opened his mouth to protest, but she poked him in the chest. "They look good! Go get them!"

"But if they make my butt disappear, how can they make me look good?!"

"You don't have a butt in the first place, Chuck! They look good on your ankles, go get them!"

Chuck finally gave in and searched through his various piles of clothes for his pants and tank. He grabbed a random pair of probably-clean white socks before almost tripping on some dirty laundry on his way to the bathroom. He tried not to take too long getting dressed, but he couldn't help frowning at the bags under his eyes and messing with his hair. Eventually, as he poked at the gray hairs by his temple, Becky knocked at the door. He jumped. "Sorry! I'm coming—" He opened the door and met with a face full of leather. He shook his head. "What the hell?"

Becky crossed her arms. "You can borrow my leather jacket."

"O...kay?" Chuck tried it on, and unsurprisingly found that it fit almost perfectly. A little snug around the armpits but not too bad, overall. He smiled. "Do I look okay?"

With a grin, Becky dragged him away from the bathroom. "You like fine, dummy. Now put on some shoes that aren't full of holes." She raised her eyebrows. "I know you hoard shoes, so don't tell me you don't have _something_." She narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down. "Preferably orange."

"Oh!" Chuck scurried off to the bedroom, leaving Becky in the hall. He came back not much later with a pair of bright orange Converse. Hi-tops with black laces and very clean soles. He sat on the floor so he could put them on and said, "My dad got me these for Christmas but I never really wear them 'cause I feel like I'm wearing traffic cones on my feet." He chewed his lip, distracted, as he tied the laces.

Becky clapped her hands together. "Perfect! Now get your butt in the car!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Chuck let Becky haul him upright and followed her out to the candy red convertible in his driveway. He almost forgot to lock the front door, but ran back with the keys as Becky started the engine. He hopped in beside her, looked at her, and said, "I'm ready."

"Good."

Becky pulled out of the driveway faster than she should have and pealed off down the street.

Chuck hung on for dear life.

.....................................................

Shiny surfaces, dark corners, neon lights. A lot of poles—of the metallic kind, of course. Though... some of the other kind, as well. (But clothed.) Chuck couldn't help but flush a little as he and Becky sat down near one of the many strippers in the club—one of the male strippers, although a pretty redhead danced nearby, dressed as an angel. In the darkness with its dramatic neon blue backlighting and slick black surfaces, Chuck couldn't see much. Even with his glasses. He squinted up at the man on the stage—the stage roughly the size of a large kitchen table and surrounded by black stools. He couldn't see his face, other than the occasional bit of jaw or cheekbone. What he could see, however, was how snugly his leather jacket fit. And how shiny his black pants were. And the red pumps at just below eyelevel, flashing in the lights.

Chuck wondered how anyone could walk in heels like that, let alone pole dance... They looked good, though.

At one point, the man unzipped his waist-length jacket to reveal the red satin lining. At that point, Becky apparently had an epiphany and almost choked on her applejack laughing. When Chuck made a questioning face at her, she patted his arm, leaning close. "Greece, Chuck. He's dressed like... from Greece."

"What—how is that Greek? Becky, are you sure that's just an appleja—"

"No, like the movie! _Grease_!" Becky stifled a giggle.

Chuck frowned. "What? No one in Grease—" He paused and looked up at the dancer, whose leather jacket lay at his feet. Skin-tight black pants, shiny. A tight shirt, just as shiny, with a scoop neck and drooping straps. A belt around the waist. The red heels. "Oh my God, he's dressed like Sandy."

Becky just laughed and nodded.

As he danced, the stripper seemed to smirk to himself, and Chuck wondered if he had heard his little exclamation. Probably. The music was loud, but so was Becky, and Chuck had a feeling that he himself might have been a little noisy as well. He scratched the back of his neck and leaned his elbows on the raised edge of the stage. Wrinkled his nose at the immediate pain of his bruise, and shifted his arms so he could look up without worrying about falling off of his stool. Every once in a while he sipped from his whiskey, but he mostly just watched the man on the pole.

At one point, Becky disappeared. Something about using the bathroom. Chuck guarded her drink with a hand over the top of the glass.

The man, dark hair slicked back and shiny, still wore most of his clothes. While other dancers were half-naked or even in nothing but pasties and G-strings, he stayed in his belted polyester jumpsuit. (Or vinyl pants and polyester shirt with a belt...? Chuck couldn't tell in the dramatically dim lighting of the club.) He did get down close to a few of the onlookers, however, men and women and others alike.

Once, Chuck thought he might come close but then he veered toward someone else and Chuck let out a breath of both relief and disappointment. Becky came back just then and plopped herself down. She grinned at Chuck as he pushed her drink over.

"...You look satisfied." Chuck threw back the rest of his whiskey before asking, "Did you do something I should be worried about?"

"I bought you a lap dance."

Chuck coughed. "You what?!" He blushed and covered his eyes. "Oh, God. How much did it cost?" He peeked between his fingers, fearful of the total.

"Um..." Becky swigged from her applejack before replying. "Fifty bucks, lasts for one song. Tip him like, five or ten dollars. No touching, no exposure, no jacking off. If you go for more songs, you can pay for yourself. I'm not shelling out 200 dollars for you to get some ass."

"Dude—I got it. Okay." Chuck held his hands up. Leaned close and whispered, "Really, though? A lap dance? It's not my birthday." He frowned at Becky.

She shrugged. "I felt like doing a good deed." She smiled crookedly at him and went on to say, "And I got myself one with a tall pretty boy, and I didn't want you to feel all alone." She laughed into her drink.

Chuck snorted. "Charitable." He returned his attention to the dancer working his way around the pole. Metal and polyester alike glinted in the blue neons, and his pumps downright glistened. Chuck stared. He couldn't help it—the man certainly knew what he was doing. Understandably, he ended up with dollar bills under his heels, and leaned down every so often so someone could tuck some money into his belt. Not a lot, but a good amount. Probably would have gotten more if he stripped down to his underwear, but he stayed in his clothes.

Chuck himself discreetly slipped a few ones over the edge of the small stage. The dancer shot him a wink—or maybe just blinked. It was hard to tell... Either way, Chuck blushed.

Eventually, Bucky prodded him—pulled his attention away from the man. She leaned close and whispered in his ear, "Go to the back room—door with the black angel wings on it." She grinned. "That's where he does his thing."

"Oh—" Chuck blinked. "Okay. Um... okay."

Becky waited just long enough to give him a thumbs up of encouragement before darting off with her empty glass.

Chuck sat for a moment. The stripper was already slipping off—he disappeared into the shadows, only to be replaced by someone stockier, and golden blonde. Chuck barely gave the red-clad man a glance. He left his half-full glass on the edge of the stage and made his way toward the area he assumed he needed to be. He got a little turned around, but after a few seconds he found a door emblazoned with black and copper wings and the name "Matthew."

Chuck was the only person around. It felt strange, to be in such a quiet, empty place when so many people filled the club just a few feet away. He fidgeted as he waited. He could hear the pulse of the music—feel it through the wall he leaned against—but most of the sound came into the hall distorted and unclear.

A few moments, and suddenly the door opened. Chuck tried not to flinch.

No one came out.

"Hello?"

"Oh, apologies." A few short seconds, and the stripper showed up in the doorway wearing a pair of midnight blue lace boy-cut panties and wine red pumps, with heels much shorter than those he'd worn onstage. He opened the door a little wider, and beckoned inside. "Come in, please."

Chuck almost hesitated, but he followed the other man inside. "So... your stripper name or whatever is Matthew?" He crossed his arms in the dimly lit room. (It grew even dimmer as the door closed.)

The stripper flicked a switch, illuminating the small room in a warm light. He held his hand out toward Chuck, with a soft smile. "Matthew, Malcolm, Mason. Whatever you would prefer." He tugged Chuck toward a velvety black loveseat. Pushed him down and almost immediately straddled him.

"Um..." Chuck didn't know what to do with his hands—no touching, obviously, but he still had no clue where to put them. He settled for awkwardly raised and half-fisted as he said, "I didn't buy this and I don't really know what to do, and I'm kind of actually shy so, like..." He paused, wrinkling his nose. "This is weird."

Matthew (or Malcolm, or Mason) raised an eyebrow. He took Chuck's hands in his own, coaxing him to loosen his fists and spread his fingers. "Just relax." He set one of Chuck's hand against the arm of the loveseat, and the other against the cushion. "Sit still, do _not_ grope me, and relax."

"Okay, okay—" Chuck took a breath. He looked up at Matthew. Squinted. "I'm sorry, you look really familiar. It's probably just my glasses or something." He glanced away, fighting off a blush despite Matthew not doing much more than sit. (To be fair... this was a half-naked man in his lap. A man in lingerie. He had every right to be incredibly embarrassed.) He took a moment to look at the dancer's face again, frowning.

"Well, perhaps you've seen me on the street, or in a store."

Chuck shook his head. "No, no... Something else."

A brief pause, as they both stared at each other.

"Oh, shit."

Chuck made a face. "What, what?"

"You're the man with the pink vibrator."

With a subdued groan, Chuck leaned his head back against the loveseat. "Jesus Christ." He sighed. "Really?" He raised his head again to give Matthew the most incredulous expression he could muster. "My friend takes me to a strip club and buys me a dance with a _co-worker_? Just my luck." He lifted a hand to rub at his face, wishing he could prevent himself from going completely red. At that point, though, he was probably already the color of a fire engine.

Matthew almost laughed. He shifted to sit beside Chuck, draping his arm along the back of the little couch, and murmured, "Having second thoughts? I don't blame you." He crossed one leg loosely over the other—ankle against his knee—and took a deep breath.

"Yeah, if it's alright with you... I'd rather not do this." Chuck clasped his hands in his lap, wishing he could shed Becky's leather jacket but unwilling to actually do so. "I didn't really wanna do it in the first place, to be honest. Not my thing."

"Oh, that's fine."

Chuck kept his eyes on his shoes as he said, "Sorry."

With a wave of his hand, Matthew shook his head. "No need to apologize. It happens."

"You never told me your name, this morning." Chuck looked up, almost hopeful. Too hot and somewhat mortified. He tapped his toes on the floor. "Just left like you had to be somewhere really fast."

The dancer smirked. Ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose, as your co-worker, it would make sense to know each other's names." He held his hand out to shake Chuck's hand. "My name is Michael, what's yours?"

"Chuck."

Michael gave Chuck's hand a firm squeeze before letting go. "Nice to meet you, Chuck. I hope your sex toy poltergeist didn't cause any further trouble after I left in such a hurry." He relaxed back against the cushions, and shook his head.

"Oh, jeez." Chuck scrunched his face up, and thought if he could turn any redder he would. "Yeah, that was... yeah." He fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of the leather jacket before asking, "This is kind of weird, but you seem nice and stuff—I mean, this morning you were really helpful, and I was wondering..." He paused, mouth twisting. "Well... you know..."

Rolling his eyes, Michael cut Chuck off. "You want to get coffee sometime, correct?"

Chuck shrugged. "I guess." He scratched at his leg. "Not like, as a date though. Just as like..."

"Coffee in exchange for friendship?"

"Y...es...?"

Michael chuckled. "Sounds alright with me. However... I think, perhaps, you should ask me again at work. While I'm fully clothed and not slightly tipsy."

"Oh—of course." Chuck fidgeted a moment. He scratched the back of his neck and frowned. "Should I... go?"

"I would appreciate it if you left, yes."

Chuck nearly jumped out of his seat, crossing his arms as he stood. "I'll see you at work, Michael. Sorry about... this." He gave a quick little wave and didn't even give Michael the chance to respond before just about running to the door. He caught the tail-end of a "Don't apologize" as he bolted from the room.

He took a moment in the hall to compose himself. Stripped out of his jacket, and thanked all the gods he could think of that he'd only drunk half a glass of watered down whiskey so he could drive both himself and Becky home. He found a nice, uncrowded place to sit, and waited for Becky to get back from doing God only knew what.

She showed up at his side after maybe ten minutes, giggling and pink-cheeked. Chuck took her arm and led her outside, met with only the slightest of protests. He got them both into the car, and started the engine, and turned the radio up so he could mostly ignore Becky's inebriated rambling. The roads were surprisingly empty, and they got to Becky's house much more quickly than they'd gotten to the club.

Chuck helped her inside, and stayed just long enough to ensure she ended up in bed rather than the floor. He used her spare key to lock the front door, called himself a cab from his cell, and sat down on her doorstep.

He thought about his accidental encounter with a businessman slash stripper and hummed to himself. He wondered if exotic dancers normally had their own backroom, or if Michael was just... special. Shrugged to himself.

He hoped their coffee date—not a date, a friendship exchange—would go well, assuming it even happened.

By the time he got home, all he cared about was his bed and blankets.

He fell asleep with the cat laying on top of his head.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh not intended to be an accurate stripclub that's for sure.  
> Just... two ideas I thought were amusing, combined into one.


End file.
